


Wrought-Iron

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Class Issues, Drama, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his aspirations and pretensions, there is only one place in the castle where Severus feels right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrought-Iron

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo 2010. Kink: _Mechanical/Technological_

He lost his virginity in the boiler room, a fact about as dignified and glamorous as the rest of his life.

_It's hot in here_

He was eighteen years old, a week away from his NEWTs, and didn't want to leave school untried. Filch was convenient, controllable, and had a reason to be discreet. They went to the boiler room, the only place in the school that opened only with a key (let the students be mauled by a werewolf or drowned by an architeuthis, but heaven forbid they get at the waterworks), and Filch locked up behind them, shaking like a dog.

It was warm. Warm enough that his skin flushed hot and prickled with sweat, even when he took his clothes off and lay down on the floor with only Filch's coat beneath him. He closed his eyes and felt the heat wash over him so palpably that he could scarcely distinguish it from the hands that touched him. 

_and it's private_

He was embarrassingly quick to rouse, half-hard the moment the humiliation of being naked half-faded and trembling violently when Filch's rough mouth scraped hot and wet from his throat to his thighs. He tried to be quiet at first, but the hoarse sounds that tripped from his throat were muffled even to his own ears under the sound of the boiler, and he soon gave in, moaning and cursing and pleading.

There was a rhythm to that roar of fire and steam, something that subtly thrummed over and over again beneath the clatter. He could feel it. Against his lips, and at the base of his prick, and in the deepest pit of his stomach, he could feel it pounding. He throbbed with it, his hips pushing up and his hands clutching at Filch's shoulders, but it was inescapable. 

'Shh, shh,' it said, governing the mouth around his prick and his own first climax of the encounter, which left him shivering so violently that his teeth chattered.

'Shh, shh.' The filthy, relentless tongue as he steadied himself on hands and knees. The slow, rocking thrusts and the grease-slick hand around his prick urging him stiff again, urging him to come again so hard that the world flared red behind his eyelids.

'Shh, shh.' It throbbed softly in his head afterwards, lulling him to sleep just as he was: sore and naked, lying on a stained coat. A hand stroked his back in slow circles.

"Shh, shh...there's a good lad."

_and its heart_

He has the best apartments in the castle. They might not boast a tower view, but they are lavishly appointed in rosewood and teak, leather and silk, and silver. Passageways that run all through the school branch out from behind the bookshelf, and the Slytherin dormitories are his own, as are the luxury of the staff lounge and the dual feasts of the kitchen and the library.

And yet, when restlessness stirs him, he descends even further than the dungeons. Hateful and ashamed, he returns to where all is dust and tarnish. He leans against the door, cheek pressed to the wood, feeling the heat pour through it. The slow, steady rhythm plucks something inside him, and his pulse begins to pound with it. His mouth, his stomach, his sex.

_is wrought-iron._

He reaches into his pocket and removes a key. He enters. Then he leaves the door ajar and waits, listening.


End file.
